The Lower London Shelter
by ladyoftheknights
Summary: A 17yearold girl known only as Alex is living in the Lower London Shelter, a rough place where she is haunted by a mysterious past and nothing is as it seems. Based very very loosely on a soap opera whose name I won't disclose.
1. Nighttime in the Shelter

The Lower London Shelter

Prologue

It was January when everything changed. I remember because of the unbearable cold. I was sitting on a bench, waiting for the bus. I was shivering...I think I must have forgotten my sweater that day. But then...everything went dark. And that's all I remember.

Chapter One

I lay in the cold bed, trying to stay warm inside the large, drafty sleeping quarters. The women in the beds nearby rolled over, their cots squeaking loudly. I sighed uncomfortably, staring out into the pitch black dark room. I had not been sleeping well lately. Things were troubling me.

Being one of the youngest in the women's section of the shelter, I often went unnoticed by its fellow occupants. This I used to my advantage, frequently eavesdropping on others' conversations. This is how I learned about the shelter, what little I knew about myself, and the other women's stories.

I tried my hardest to shut my eyes and think of sleep. My hand went to my growing abdomen as I thought of the fact that I needed sleep, not just for me, but for my child. I could hear some of the other women whispering amongst themselves in the dark. I listened carefully to hear what they were saying.

"...she's only seventeen, you know..."

"...no idea who the father is..."

"...suffering from severe amnesia..."

"...taken from a bus stop few hours from here..."

"...parents kicked her out years ago..."

"...never filed a missing persons report..."

I knew they were talking about me, but I said nothing. I had heard this information many times before; it was the only way I was able to piece together the little I knew of my broken past. I sighed softly again and tried hard to remember...my parents...what did they look like? I tried hard to picture them, but nothing came to mind. And...my name...what was it? Here at the shelter, I was called Alex, and only Alex, for no other name did I know. I was, I had been, a completely different person, but now...the only memories I had were of sitting at the bus stop in a city whose name I did not know, shivering. Then...nothing. The women across the room silenced moments later, drifting into sleep. I closed my eyes once more and finally slipped into the world of my dreams...

All too soon, the squeaking of nearby cots awoke me. I yawned and rose from my bed, straightening the thin blanket in a small attempt to restore some order to my corner. I grabbed my clothes from under my bed and slipped away down the small, damp hallway, toward the bathroom, the only place where one could find some privacy.

Already, there were other women in the bathroom, dressing or taking showers, trying to get the little bit of hot water that the shelter had. I locked myself in one of the stalls, throwing the bundle of clothes I carried to the floor. I stood a moment, dazed, before leaning against the wall and falling to the floor myself, where I cried for what seemed like hours.


	2. Delirium and Paranoia

The Lower London Shelter

Chapter Two

After a good twenty minutes, I rose from the dirty floor of the bathroom. Quietly, I dressed in the clothes I had cast aside earlier, folding the ones I had been wearing, because I had to wear them again tomorrow.

In the shelter, we were each given two sets of clothing. We alternated between them, wearing them every other day for two weeks, and then they were washed, one on Saturday, one on Sunday, as not to upset the balance of things. I tugged the shirt, which was far too small, over my stomach and winced, feeling a slight kicking inside, as if someone was punching me. I sat once again on the floor and breathed deeply, relaxing as to soothe the baby inside me.

I was about seventeen years old, or so I had been told, and 5 months pregnant. I had no idea who I was, or where I was, or anything about the horrid man who had gotten me into this position. The other women in the shelter talked about me often, and from this, I had found out what I knew. I was a popular subject for gossip in the shelter, most of the women were far older than I and in far less tragic situations. I quietly rose, the baby quieted at last, and unlatched the stall door, stepping out into the now very crowded bathroom.

Instantly a group of older women near the sinks hushed. I knew they had been talking about me, everyone seemed to be. Perhaps what they were saying was true. Perhaps I was dreaming. Or, most likely of all, perhaps I was losing my mind, living in a world of delirium and paranoia. Yes, I thought to myself, this was obviously the more probable answer.

Quietly I walked past them, my head held high. I tried to look confident, brave, even, but I knew I wasn't doing a good job of it. The women stared at me, whispering. My expression faltered. I had no idea why they hated me so, but I was determined not to let them know it upset me. As I walked toward the door, it suddenly swung open, hitting me head-on. I fell to the cold floor in a heap.


	3. Kerry Spinnet and Seamus Dean

The Lower London Shelter

Chapter 3

All too soon, I awoke. It took me a moment or two to realize that I was still lying in the bathroom. Someone was leaning over me, slapping my face. I tried to stand, tried to...I fell back down. The woman above me grabbed my hand and pulled me into a sitting position. I rubbed my head in confusion. She stared at me cautiously, concern flashing across her face. "Who are you?" I mumbled, standing slowly. "Kerry Spinnet," she said, still all-business. "You're...the one called Alex, aren't you?" I nodded. She smiled for the first time, and I noticed the crisp, clean suit she wore. She must have seen me staring, for her next words were, "I'm one of the shelter's new supervisors." I nodded, understanding. "Are you all right?" She asked me, her eyes unmoving. I nodded. "Just...just a little disoriented, I suppose," I said. "Good," was her response, "breakfast is being served now."

Kerry left before I could thank her. Shrugging in confusion, I followed the other women down the damp, dank cement hallway toward the dining room, a place I dreaded each day. Unfortunately, the shelter was not only for women and children; it was also for men.

As the other women and I filed in from our side of the shelter, the men filed in, across the dining hall. Some of them were already seated, slurping coffee or eating biscuits. I listened carefully to the conversation as I passed a table:

"Didn't kip well last night," said a stout man in grubby jeans and a ripped sweatshirt.

"New bloke snores like nothing I ever heard before," said another, sipping black coffee.

"Wha's 'is name again, Fin?" asked a third.

"Dean, I think it is," said the first man, Fin.

I shrugged. A new guy at the shelter? Certainly not unusual. Men in the shelter were quite common. Although the sign out front read "Lower London Women and Children's Shelter," the place had been open to men for several years, or so I'd heard.

The line for food seemed to move slower with every passing second. I waited patiently as I could, though the constant rumbling in my stomach reminded me that I had not only myself, but my baby to feed.

When I finally reached the counter, someone passed me a tray. "Thanks," I mumbled absentmindedly. "Well, it's so nice to find a lady with manners," said a voice. I looked up to see who had spoken. To my surprise, a tall man stood before me, grinning boyishly. Sharp features and wavy dark hair...I knew I would have remembered seeing him before. "Name's Seamus," he said, not waiting for me to speak first. "Seamus Dean," he said. I realized why I had not seen him before. He was an Irishman.

He extended one hand, expecting me to shake it. I looked at it, but did nothing. "What's your name?" he prompted. I looked at the ground. For some reason beyond my explanation, I was terrified of him. Finally–"Alex," I managed to choke out. He nodded and looked me over slightly, either sizing me up or checking me out, not that it really mattered. Instinctively, I crossed my arms over my swollen stomach, but the flash of surprise in his eyes told me he knew I was with child.

Surprisingly, he did neither of the two things I had anticipated; walk away or try to make a move on me. Instead, he smiled politely. "Been here long?" he asked, and I shrugged. "About 5 months or so," I answered. "You're new, am I right?" He nodded casually. "Where are you from?" he asked. I had quite a time deliberating how to answer this. "I...don't know," I said finally, flashing him a "don't ask, don't tell," look. He nodded. "I grew up in Ireland," he said, explaining his accent, "but my Mum moved us to Britain when I was 17." I looked him over carefully. He was dressed not-too-raggedly, and had the appearance of a very attractive overgrown schoolboy.

"Let me ask you something," I said, surprised to hear myself sounding so bold. "What is someone as good-looking and well-mannered as you doing in a place like this?" He laughed slightly and shrugged, pointed me toward a vacant table near the back of the hall. I took a seat, and he proceeded to tell me his life story.


End file.
